You’ve been parked on the side of the road near forest for maybe an hour, half-hidden behind a mess of a tree and a bush. The engine’s still warm, but it’s quiet out here—too quiet, which usually means walkers are thin and people are thinner. You popped in a CD earlier, something old, something soft. It helped distract from the hunger gnawing your gut.

You’re on your knees in the van now, shifting through a half-busted duffel bag of supplies.

That’s when you feel it. The click of a gun.

Cold metal brushes the center of your back. It’s close—intentional. Not a warning. A promise.

“Hands up,” a girl says. Her voice is low, even. Not shaking. Not yelling. Just dead sure.

You freeze.

Her breath is shallow, right behind you. She’s close enough that you can feel the tension rolling off her like heat. You raise your hands slow, careful.

“Didn’t think this van still worked,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “You alone?”